


The Kit-Painter

by Brackenfire



Category: Warriors - Erin Hunter
Genre: Frecklesplash, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kits, Oneshot, Prophecy, StarClan (Warriors), StarClan prophecies, just a strange idea, kit-painter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 21:19:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20160256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brackenfire/pseuds/Brackenfire
Summary: Kits are not made by chance. Prophecies are not fulfilled by chance. Someone must bring these kits into existence, and someone must give them the means to fulfill their prophecies. My name is Frecklesplash, and this is my duty. They call me the Kit-Painter.---Oneshot for now - maybe it'll be a twoshot at some point?





	The Kit-Painter

**Author's Note:**

> So this kind of just burrowed its way into the front of my brain and instead of working on anything else, I did this instead. If there are any errors, my bad, I wrote this in one sitting. It's kind of my fever-dream love-child. 
> 
> Also, I love Goosefeather. I hate how people always see him as a crazy old man when he just had dementia, probably from being able to see the future. LIke, that's not HIS fault.

There are a few things you should be aware of before I tell you my story.

The first is that there is not one StarClan. They are many, and they are all called different things. Many of them are in languages I do not understand, and from cultures I cannot comprehend. The closest to my StarClan is the Tribe of Endless Hunting—perhaps that puts it into perspective.

The second is that when cats are ‘forgotten’, they do not just disappear forever. When cats in StarClan are forgotten on the ground, with few cats to keep their memories alive, their corporeal forms disappear from StarClan. It is then assumed that they vanish forever. This is not the case. There is another realm of being, where we live forever—but that’s such a funny word.

What is _forever?_ What is _now?_ How can you measure time when time does not affect you in the way it affects the cats on the ground? So the easiest way for me to put it is to say that we live forever. The most accurate way to put it would be to say that we do not stop existing.

There is a third thing, but I think I will let you discover that one on your own.

This world is infinite—some travel it tirelessly, exploring for the thrill of the journey. Others settle down with families. Still others make new friends.

And then there are those of us who, for one reason or another, are chosen to bridge the gap between this place and your StarClan. That would be me, and my partner. We are called upon by the various groups of ancestors to help them create and fulfill their prophecies. I do what I can, with only one cat to help me.

My name is Frecklesplash. You might already know of my partner.

“No—he must be _white._”

I bare my teeth, tired and grumpy. No matter how much I keep thinking of fluffy clouds, this kit is more gray than white. “Do you want to do this yourself?”

He blinks rheumy blue eyes at me. After a long pause, his head turns away. “Snow white,” he murmurs, “with bright blue eyes.”

_Snow—thank you, that’s an image that helps. _I grind my teeth and set to ignoring him, peering into the puddle. The foggy outline of the kit, stretched out like he was sleeping, is slowly coming into clearer view. It always takes a while for the image of the kit to fully surface, to come into clarity like he was sitting right in front of me, so I can do the more delicate work.

Kits are not made by chance. Prophecies are not made and fulfilled by chance. They cannot be changed—they are set in stone like the mountains themselves long before the kits are even born, long before StarClan tells anyone of them. Long before StarClan knows of them.

“Snow white,” I whisper, half to myself. “Short fur. He’s a small kit. With blue eyes, like the sunhigh sky.”

The image throbs, pulses, becomes clearer. I can see his whiskers now. His eyes are closed, but I know they are blue—know it like I know the spots on my own tail.

“Very small,” I continue, staring intently. My tail-tip taps against the ground, absent in my concentration. “And—alone?” I shoot a quick glance at my gray companion. He does not correct me.

“Alone,” I repeat with a sigh. “The only kit.”

There. It’s as clear as it will get. His fur looks so real, like I could reach out and touch it. I reach out with a paw, touch the tips of my toes to the water. Immediately, it shocks my paw like touching ice, and I gasp at the cold. It’s such a horrible, biting cold—unfortunately, I know what that means. I jerk back suddenly, and swing to stare at Goosefeather.

“He doesn’t live?” I demand.

Goosefeather inclines his head at me. “Does it matter? He’s deaf—he can’t be a warrior anyway.”

_He’s deaf._ I look back at the outline, and heave a sigh. “Of course.” I reach out again, this time with a claw, and drag it through the outline of his ears._ Deaf._ The image ripples, and when it stills, the picture has not changed. I know it, though—this kit will never hear. It will be his downfall. He will die so young. I know all of these things without Goosefeather telling me.

“Is that it?” I ask, my heart weighing heavily in my chest. Making the little ones, knowing the ones that will die before warrior-hood, has never gotten easier. I’ve done this for seasons on seasons on seasons, for countless sets of ancestors, and it _never_ gets easier.

“That’s all,” he meows gently. “We can wait to do more tomorrow if you like.”

I turn away from the puddle as it glows like sunlight. Their StarClan has taken the kit—he is no longer in my control. If I ever see him again, it will be among the ranks of his ancestors. “We have time for one more tonight.”

“Are you sure, Frecklesplash?” Goosefeather asks, inclining his head. As I gaze at him, it’s hard for me to see him like he was at his death—wispy and whiting, with a craziness in his eyes and the disease in the brain. Here, he is eternally young and strong, and full of wit. It is how he wanted to be remembered and known, and it is how I have always and will always know him.

“I’m sure,” I respond. I approach another puddle, this one bigger than the last. “One more—wasn’t the next a set of three?”

My name is Frecklesplash. They call me The Kit-Painter.

Kits are not made by chance. I know that. But this time, the last one surfaces without me even having to think about it.

“Strange,” Goosefeather mutters, peeking down into the puddle. Neither of our reflections show; just the kits. His brother and sister sit, nearly finished, on either side of him. One is a golden tabby—he will be the biggest of the three, with unrivalled strength. The she-cat is solid black with leaf-green eyes—she will be kind, but so very hurt. She will also be the first to die, although thankfully, once she is older.

“I didn’t even have to think about him,” I wonder, examining the little figure in the middle. The smallest kit, a tom with gray fur and blue eyes. Faint stripes spread across his spine and down his ribs. “It was like he already existed in the past.”

I think about a kit I designed a few days prior, a small one her mother named Cinderkit. Goosefeather had me use a template from a kit from seasons ago, the exact template of a kit with the exact same name—even with the same injury in the hind leg.

I know how these kits are born. I know when they will die. Sometimes, Goosefeather tells me their names. He was blessed (blessed? Or cursed?) by his StarClan with the ability to see into the future. Here, time is no object, and Goosefeather knows all. He helps me design my kits according to their prophecies, creating them so they will be exactly the way they are supposed to, to do the things they are destined to.

If this kit, the impossible kit, has stumped Goosefeather, I don’t know what to make of it.

“He is nearly complete. Not an exact copy.” He leans close to the puddle and exhales. It ripples the surface of the water. After a long pause (probably for dramatic effect, I’m sure), Goosefeather declares, “He must be blind. But the things he will see…” He trails off, eyes half-closing.

_Blind—there’s a new one._ I drag one claw through the kit’s eyes. The image shifts, and then his eyes, so bright and blue, cloud and milk over. _He will never see the world that his littermates do._ It always hurts my heart to cripple these kits. The deaf kit I created earlier surfaces in my mind. _He dies so young…_

“Here.” Goosefeather straightens and nods toward the puddle he jokingly calls the Prophecy Puddle. Three little stars sit there, spinning. “They all get one.”

When prophecies are given to individual cats, a star will appear in the tiniest puddle in my cavern. It is then up to me to bless each kit with their prophecy, and place it where they will need it the most, where it will be of the most use.

Using the flat side of my paw, I scoop out the first star. “This is for the little tiger,” I say aloud, more for show than out of any real need. Gently, I place it on his shoulder. It vanishes almost immediately against his fur. “He will be strong; stronger than any adversity, and unable to be harmed in any fight.” I pick up the next one. I almost touch the black kit, but something draws me back to the blind gray kit.

Slowly, as slow as creeping up on a bird, I touch it to his forehead. This one leaves a faint impression, as faint as the stripes on his back. He will now have stripes on his head. Goosefeather makes an inquisitive noise.

“He will see so many things,” I whisper. _This is all I can do, little kit._ “In his dreams, and in the waking world—he will see without seeing, and know everything he wishes.”

I’m so absorbed in my thoughts of the gray kit that I don’t notice Goosefeather speaking until he prods my shoulder with a paw. I look over at him. His gaze is clear, and maybe just a little sad.

“Jaykit,” he tells me. “He will be a medicine cat.”

“Jaykit,” I say experimentally, and purr. “So fitting for the little gray and blue kit.”

We sit in silence for a moment, Goosefeather no doubt checking to make sure I made the correct decision, before I finally turn my eyes back to the puddle.

Except now, it’s empty.

_Mouse-dung!_ “Wait—did they take it?” I demand, rising to all four feet. My spine bristles. “But—” I glance at the Prophecy Puddle—_ugh, now he’s got me doing that_—and see the last little star, spinning unhurriedly. “But I didn’t get them all!”

“They usually aren’t so rash,” Goosefeather mutters. His tail lashes on the ground. He closes his eyes, ears twitching. “Who belongs to the last part of the prophecy, then?”

“What was that kit’s name?” I ask. “The one I didn’t get to complete.”

“Hollykit.”

_Poor Hollykit,_ is all I can think, my mind racing in panic. _She dies before her brothers, and she didn’t even get her part of the prophecy. She’s incomplete. I haven’t ever created an incomplete kit. I can’t believe—_

“After the sharp-eyed jay, and the roaring lion,” Goosefeather gasps out suddenly, making me jump, “peace will come on dove’s gentle wing.”

“What?” I snap. “Stop spouting nonsense.”

“That’s the new prophecy from their StarClan.” Goosefeather turns to me. “Two more kits.”

“Wh—What about—”

“Frecklesplash.” His meow is firm and determined, and shuts me up immediately. “You must trust me. Two more kits. Both she-cats. One is gray, and one is striped.”

I scowl, but turn to the puddle anyway. Focusing on his words, I allow the images to take shape in my mind. Then, just as quickly as I create them in my mind, the images appear in the puddle. But I can’t stop thinking about Hollykit.

“What happens to her?” I ask Goosefeather that night, watching as he turns in circles in his nest. He barely spares me a glance when I speak.

“Who?” he asks.

“Hollykit.” The name, after spinning around my mind all day, feels as familiar on my tongue as Goosefeather’s. He stops and stares at me. It’s a frustrated, stern look. It reminds me that he must have been an amazing cat before his mind left him.

“Why does it matter?” he grumbles. He finally drops down with a grunt. His claws work in his mossy nest. “You’ve never cared so much about one kit before.”

“She wasn’t finished.” I look away, to the night sky. The moon is nearly full again. “Does that change how she lives?”

Goosefeather sighs. “You know, my mentor Cloudberry made me promise never to share my visions with any cat. Who in StarClan would have thought that I would spend eternity doing everything he told me not to do?”

“It’s different for mortals,” I remind him. “They can’t understand that which is more powerful than they. They fear it.” _They feared you._ But I keep that last thought to myself. He knows, of course—but why remind him?

Goosefeather is silent for a long time, so long that I think he must have fallen asleep. Eventually, he speaks, very softly; “The striped kit you created today—her name will be Ivykit. She will be born seasons after Jaykit, Hollykit, and Lionkit. She will love Holly, and Holly will die for her. It will be a hero’s death. She will be remembered a hero.”

That does soothe my heart. It relaxes me enough to allow me to lay down, my nose on my white paws. “Then what happens to Ivy, and her sister? And Jay and Lion?”

“Go to sleep,” he says instead. “It’s late.”

I know at this point I won’t get anything else from him. That’s alright. My question was answered. My conscience will let me sleep now.

**Author's Note:**

> Goosefeather, Ivykit, Jaykit, Hollykit, Lionkit, Dovekit, and Snowkit are not mine. They belong to Erin Hunter and Harper-Collins. Frecklesplash is mine and belongs to me.


End file.
